


Safe and Tucked Away

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Class Issues, Durin Family Angst, Family, Gen, Kid Fic, Thorin's A+ Parenting, Uncle-Nephew Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Thorin can't bear what the Dwarves have to suffer in exile. He doesn't want Fili to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Tucked Away

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Mumford & Son's "Broken Crown," which is one of the quintessential Durin Family Angst songs. Kili is about seven in this, which would make him comparable to a three-year-old human, give or take a few months, and Fili comparable to a five year old, according to my very extensively researched scientific and mathematical conclusion.

In the steady glow of the low-burning coals, the armor gleamed, and Thorin’s eyes gleamed as he looked upon it. It was not his finest work—it couldn’t be, made in another’s forge with another’s tools—but it was among the best he had done in a long time. He walked around the low table several times, observing the armor from every angle, analyzing the measurements with a shrewd eye. They were exact. The metal had not warped in the cooling, been flattened too thin in the hammering, nor been gouged too deeply in the engraving. Thorin nodded to himself proudly and rubbed his thumb over his maker’s mark, carved by the edge of one of the shoulder-guards.

“’Tis fine work, my lord,” a congenial voice said, and Thorin looked over his shoulder to see his brother-in-law striding into the forge, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

“It will serve,” he said, though he was sure that any modesty in the words was offset by the satisfaction in his voice.

“For whom?” Zhili asked, leaning over the table. “A Man, obviously.”

“Aye. A captain commissioned me; his son has just been appointed to the lord’s guard. The design needed to fit certain specifications, but it is good to be doing something other than repairs.”

Zhili observed the armor for a few more minutes, and made the appropriate comments, but Thorin could tell that his mind was elsewhere. He was distracted by something—and uneasy. Zhili had a light heart, and was not often unsettled. Finally, he cleared his throat and adopted a formal tone that ill suited him. Thorin’s heart sank.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Zhili began in a stilted voice. “I must beg a favor—Mahal curse it. You know I hate to ask, Thorin,” he said lowly. His face was pained.

“Kili is still ill, then,” Thorin said somberly.

Zhili nodded, and Thorin heaved a heavy sigh. His young nephew had been sick abed for three days now, and his family was worried. Dwarves, as a rule, were extremely fond of children; any given Dwarfling was apt to have a handful of siblings and an enormous network of doting aunts, uncles, and cousins, each as attentive as the last. Together, they kept their families safe and hale. In Erebor, the death of a child had been a rare and deeply shocking thing. In exile… they had _not_ grown accustomed to it. To grow accustomed was to admit defeat—but it was a sobering reality of life in strange lands.

“The Men of this land have a remedy,” Zhili said, stumbling over his words. “But they guard its recipe carefully, so we can make none of it for our own. And the apothecary is…”

“Run by leeches,” Thorin growled. “I understand, brother.”

“Work is poor, and the cost of travel great—I would not burden you over much, especially when funds must be saved to retake Erebor, but…”

“Speak no more of that,” Thorin said sharply. He made a conscious effort to lower his voice, in case any Men should be passing by, as a Khuzdul proverb fell easily from his lips. “Thadulur kuthu barufizu oshmâkha ra tûm fulz muneb meregizu. If I cannot part with gold in the service of my own, then I am a failed king—and if I am a failed king, then there is no need to plot for Erebor. Our time will come. The Man should be here soon, to pay the remainder of the cost for his armor; take any part of it that you require. Your son is not meant to stay in bed,” he added with the flicker of a smile.

“Well do I know it,” Zhili said wryly. Kili had learned to walk nearly three years ago, and proven very adept at it. It had been an exhausting three years. “Fili is very cross with him; he likes to have his brother toddling after him, even if he won’t say so.”

“You are not an older brother, Zhili—it is a sacred rule that we must _never_ say so.”

His brother-in-law chuckled, and then the sound of heavy footsteps approached the forge door. Thorin turned and clasped his hands behind his back, adopting the firm but polite expression that worked best with human customers, and nodded respectfully at the Men who entered. Both were tall and broad of shoulder, though they had not the stockiness of Dwarves. The father had golden hair, and the son’s was mousy-brown, but kinship was written in the lines of their faces and their dark eyes.

“Master Thorin,” the father acknowledged with a bow. His son echoed him.

“Odel—and young master Nyle, greetings to you both. This is my sister’s husband, Zhili son of Zindar.”

“At your service,” Zhili said with a polite bow, though the Men hardly acknowledged it.

“It is done, then?” Odel said, stepping forth to view the armor. He made an approving noise. “Good work, that.”

“It will serve,” Nyle shrugged.

Thorin had seen a Dwarf struck by lightning once—he imagined this was what it had felt like for the poor soul. Every muscle in his body tensed and his blood sizzled. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zhili look at him with wide, frantic eyes, but he refused to look back. His gaze was fixed on the _boy_ looking over the armor with a carefully disinterested face. The same words Thorin himself had set, but what a world of difference.

“Very well done,” Odel said, tapping the engravings. “Although I wonder…”

He looked at his son and then back at the armor, and Nyle leapt in.

“Yes, you’re right, Father—it looks too big there.” He traced along the shoulders and the back. “I don’t think it matches the measurements.”

“It doesn’t,” Thorin said through numb lips and gritted teeth. “The muscles that are developed when standing guard and drilling are different than those you have used so far. The armor is slightly larger here and in the greaves to accommodate for that. Otherwise you would need new armor in a month.”

The boy looked at his father, hesitating, and Odel nodded slightly. Thorin couldn’t breathe for rage. It was a _ploy_. An act designed to _lower the price_. His fingers twitched and he wondered if either Man would continue with their charade if he demonstrated that he could wield the swords he crafted.

“So you say,” Odel continued, blustering. “But I like not the thought of paying such an exorbitant amount for armor that clanks and rattles against his shoulders.”

“If it still rattles in a month, I will alter it,” Thorin bit out. “Or perhaps by then he will have quit.”

“How dare you!” Nyle cried, stepping forward. His face was red. “Bite your tongue, Dwarf—a guard of the lord does not go back on his word!”

“And a Dwarf does not present the work of his own hands if he is not satisfied with its quality. I tell you, young master, the armor will fit and fit well.”

“Be that as it may, my father will not pay the fee you decided, not for something that does not fit the measurements we provided!”

“Thorin…”

Zhili’s voice was agitated, and he grabbed Thorin’s arm. Thorin held up a hand and took a deep breath.

“We negotiated a price,” he said in a deadly cold voice. “You agreed upon it. Do you go back upon your word?”

“You need not bear this insult, my king,” Zhili hissed in his ear, but Thorin shook his head.

“We will if it is necessary,” Odel said, crossing his arms. “Who else will take it, if we do not?”

 _No one_ , Thorin thought. _Not with your thrice-damned sigil carved in six different places, and the lord’s in twelve more. None of the other guards can afford work like this_. He wanted, desperately, to bleed them a little for the insult and banish them from the forge, but he could not ignore Zhili at his side. Zhili and Dis worked their fingers to the bone to provide for their children, but it was not enough—and if the princess of the Lonely Mountain could not afford to treat her sick child, who could?

They were not in the Lonely Mountain anymore.

“Three quarters of the agreed price,” he said lowly. “And you will never set foot in this forge again.”

“Half.”

“Fine.”

The rest of the transaction was conducted in utter silence. The Men seemed to be in good humor, and Odel even patted Thorin’s shoulder congenially. If Zhili had not been there, Thorin would have sliced off his hand. The second the Men were gone, he turned towards his brother-in-law and opened the purse they had just deposited in his hand.

“How much do you need?” he asked quietly.

“After such a display? Thorin, the _insult_ —no. No, brother, I will not take your gold.”

“Will pride feed your children?” Thorin snapped. Zhili bowed his head.

“Melhekhel,” he murmured.

Thorin fished out a few coins—twice as much as Zhili asked for, because he knew the other Dwarf had not given him the truth. He told Zhili he would see him at home later, and stayed for a long time staring at the fire. The coals growled and the flames roared.

\--

The door of his room slammed behind him, and Thorin seized the nearest thing he could find—a little stool—and flung it against the wall. It burst into splinters with a satisfying crack, but then he remembered that it was a gift, hand-carved by Dis, and he could not ask her to take time away from her sons or her craft to replace it. That made him angrier, and he growled and kicked the bed. _That_ , at least, did not break.

He dropped onto the straw mattress, his hands gripping the edges of the bedframe so hard that his nails gouged the wood, and Khuzdul curses fell from his lips like rainwater.

How dare they? How _dare_ they? Not just Odel and his insipid son, but the apothecaries who would see Dwarf children die, the parents who would keep their knowledge of medicine secret, the innkeepers and merchants who would charge Dwarves twice their normal price, because they knew they had no farms of their own and no friends and nowhere to go. A snarl escaped Thorin’s lips as he thought of how many he had lost—not in battle, but to cold and illness and even starvation. He did his best to provide for all, but there was a limit to what he could do.

The Dragon had conquered them. The Orcs and the Goblins had slaughtered them. Nothing else could be expected from those wretched creatures with hate in their hearts. It was the Elves who had turned their backs, and the Men who mocked them, that Thorin thought of now, and his heart was cold. He was a king of Erebor, and Durin’s blood flowed through his veins. They were Mahal’s chosen people. His father, his grandfather had _died_ to protect them and they were _begging for scraps—_!

There was a clattering at the door and it burst open. Before he could so much as gather his thoughts, his eldest nephew burst into the room, his braids flying.

“Uncle Thorin!” Fili shouted. He ran towards him and Thorin stood abruptly, striding around the other side of the bed.

“Not _now_ , Fili,” he snapped.

“But Amad said—”

“Go find your mother and leave me be!” Fili stood stock still, his little mouth hanging open, and Thorin was frightened of the expression on his nephew’s face. He did not want the boy to see him now—not like this. “ _Out!_ ”

The young dwarf turned around and scampered out of the room, right into his father’s arms. Zhili stared at Thorin in mute shock. Thorin turned away and closed his eyes.

\--

An hour later, Thorin was in his room, examining his maps again. It was no use. Many times he had thought over his decision and concluded that there was no better place than the Blue Mountains, at least until Erebor was recovered. They had been here for ten years now; rough-hewn caves had been hollowed out, and sturdy houses built. Not many—enormous extended families were crowded into small homes, the birth rate was down, work and gold was difficult to come by. But at least they were improving.

Thorin sighed and ran a hand through his hair, and the door banged open against the wall.

“You _yelled_ at my _son_.”

“Dis—”

Before he could even turn around, his sister delivered a sharp _thwap_ to his head. Thorin flinched away and then looked up, guiltily, at the furious Dwarf before him.

“Is this what being a king means to you, Thorin Oakenshield?” Dis’s eyes flashed a deep, frightening azurite blue, and Thorin tried not to quail. His sister had always had a terrifying temper, and she was the better of the two of them with knives. He eyed her heavy dress—and its many pockets—worriedly.

“Nay, Dis,” he said quietly. “I apologize.”

“ _I_ have lived with your bearish temper since I was a wee dwarf, brother, but I had thought that you wouldn’t stoop to yelling at children once you were no longer a child yourself! He was coming to tell you that his brother will live thanks to you, and you shouted at him, you daft _bastard_.”

There was no calming her temper; Thorin knew his sister too well, and he sat there meekly as she berated him. It was not like him. Once or twice he opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Dis narrowed her eyes silently and he backed down. If Dis wanted to fight, she would fight, and between the two of them they could shake down the house. Neither of them wanted that, so he simply waited until she took a breath and collapsed into a chair.

“And you smashed the stool,” she concluded sharply. “Worked my fingers to the bone on that, I hope you know.”

“Aye, I know. The Man who came in—”

“Zhili’s told me about him. You didn’t punch his teeth out, well done.”

“Nearly did. And if Fili had stayed, I fear my words would have been harsher. He is my nephew… he should not know what we must suffer.”

Dis reached up and toyed with the braid at his temple. She liked to keep her own hair and beard braided neatly, and never understood his reasoning behind keeping his beard short. There was a difference, she thought, between honoring and idolizing the heroes of the past. She tugged at his hair, just hard enough to hurt, and Thorin huffed. He knew she was annoyed still. He shouldn’t have started the conversation with an excuse—but it wasn’t in his nature to shy away from confrontation entirely. He had done what he thought was right.

“He _needs_ to know, Thorin,” she murmured.

“He is a _boy_.”

“A smart one. He sees our worry and our struggles. They frighten him more when they are hidden and he cannot understand. And besides…” She stood and took his hands in hers. She looked tired, so _tired_ , and Thorin wished he could help, but he was tired too. He leaned down and touches their foreheads together. “He is your heir, nadad. He cannot fear you, he cannot admire you from afar. He must know who you are and what it means to be king.” She swallowed thickly. “And you must tell him the old stories. Erebor, our parents and grandparents… Frerin. I was still a child. I cannot tell him, but he must know.”

“He will,” Thorin said in a hoarse voice. He cleared his throat and drew back. “He will, Dis. I swear it.”

\--

Late the next morning, he was sitting on his bed, sharpening a knife, when his door creaked open. He pretended not to notice, and a tiny face appeared in the crack. Thorin smiled to himself and moved to the floor, leaning against the bed. He looked directly at the door and the face disappeared.

“Come here, sister-son,” Thorin called, and he held out his arms. Fili looked at him, hesitance written in every line of his young face. His eyes were wide and near-fearful, and Thorin felt every muscle in his body ache with guilt. “Little one, I will not yell. Come here.”

Slowly, Fili toddled closer. Thorin’s gaze was somber and steady, their gazes locked, and when Fili was halfway there he suddenly broke into a run and threw himself in Thorin’s arms. The surprise and delight of the action almost made him laugh, and Thorin hugged the young dwarf tightly. His eyes were shut tight, and he tried not to think of Frerin. Frerin, his lost brother, little more than a child when he met his end—Thorin could remember when Frerin was as young as this. He kissed the top of Fili’s head.

“I am sorry I snapped, little one,” he murmured. “You do not deserve to bear the brunt of your uncle’s burdens.”

“Amad said you were sad,” Fili said solemnly.

“Aye.”

“Are you still sad?”

“No.” Thorin hesitated, and then released Fili from his tight grip. He rested his hands on the dwarfling’s little shoulders, and looked him in the eye. He had his mother’s eyes, clear and bright. “Yes, I am. I am sad because  the place where I lived when I was small, and where your mother and I grew up, is gone now, and because I do not have my father or my grandfather or my brother with me. And all of this will anger me for a very long time, nidoyel—I do not mean to be angry at you, but I may forget, and if I do, you must be strong and brave, and yell at me.”

Fili was upset at that, and he shook his head vigorously.

“Not supposed to yell,” he said. “’Specially not at old, grown-up Dwarves.”

 _Has Dis been telling him I’m old?_ Thorin thought crossly.

“That is polite; but you are a descendent of Durin, little one, and Mahal has blessed you with a fine strong voice, made for yelling at Dwarrows when they act foolishly. So if I ever shout again—though I will try not to—will you yell at me? All you need say is ‘No, uncle, this is unjust,’ and I will stop. I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain son of Thror, give you my word.”

Fili yet looked hesitant, but he nodded. Thorin leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

“Good lad,” he said approvingly.

“Kili’s all better now,” Fili said with a grin. “Amad won’t let him run around yet, but he ate two whole bowls of pudding at dinner last night.”

“Adad spoils the pair of you. I’m sure he’ll be up and running circles around your parents soon enough. Speaking of which, come here and sit still.”

In a flash, he had seized Fili around the middle and turned him around, and he held him on his lap. Fili realized what was going on and groaned loudly.

“But uncle—!”

“Hush, nidoyel. Your amad works very hard to keep you looking proper, and you do not make it easy on her, running about and tugging your hair like you do.”

“She already did my hair this morning,” Fili grumbled.

“Then you ought to have left it as it was,” Thorin said. He clucked his tongue and began to unravel the braids in his nephew’s hair, which had become sloppy and knotted. He hadn’t even managed to untie them all before Fili starting fidgeting. “If you stay still, little one, I will tell you a tale.”

It was the wrong thing to say; instantly, Fili whipped around, tugging his hair out of Thorin’s hands. His eyes were shining.

“You will?”

“If you stay still,” Thorin repeated in a stern voice. Fili turned around and made a big show of settling in and then remaining, still as stone. “What story should I tell? The tale of Durin the Deathless, perhaps? That is a fine one. Or the tale of your namesake Fili, who was so clever that he outsmarted all the goblins of the Misty Mountains?”

“Amad has told me all of them.”

“ _All_ of them? Every story of every Dwarf who ever lived?”

“All the normal stories,” Fili clarified. He was forbidden from moving his head, but his hands began to pat out a simple rhythm on his knees, entertaining himself. “Do you have any new ones?”

“Let me think…”

Thorin finished unwrapping Fili’s braids as he racked his mind, trying to come up with a good story for a young Dwarf prince to know; it had been a long time since he sat at his parents’ feet long enough to listen for one. He ought to ask Gloin. The grumpy Dwarf collected tales like coins, and likely knew a good handful that didn’t include decapitations and impalements and amputations, which had been Thorin’s favorites as a lad. He thought of what Dis had said, but…

“Are you really a king, uncle?” Fili asked thoughtfully, interrupting Thorin’s musings. “Amad and Adad say you are.”

“I am.”

“Where’s your crown? And your gold battle-axe with diamonds?”

Thorin laughed—a true rich laugh that rumbled through his chest and made Fili bounce.

“Do all kings have crowns and gold battle axes?”

“Yes.”

“Well, perhaps I will get them when I have a throne again. Although you should know, my lad, that gold is a very soft metal and not good for battle—iron is best.”

“Did _your_ father have a crown?”

“No, nidoyel, but my grandfather—your great-grandfather Thror—he had one.”

“Will you tell me a tale about him, uncle?”

Thorin’s fingers trailed threw his nephew’s hair slowly, gently tugging through tangles and knots. He had never been patient enough to put in so many braids, and he doubted that Fili would wear very many either; the boy never seemed to sit still for long enough. It was only now, though, that Thorin realized how little time he truly spent with Fili. He loved Dis and her family, but the vast majority of his time was spent in his forge or amongst the rest of their people, seeing to their needs, hearing their complaints, perhaps stopping with some to ruminate on their glorious history and their painful defeats, and plans for the future.

Fili was his heir. His sister’s son. His _nidoyel_. The boy _was_ his future, and he had been too blind to realize it.

Thorin leaned down and rested his cheek against the top of Fili’s head. Fili squirmed and bent his head back—he was one of those children who liked to see every damn thing at all times, and probably ask a dozen questions about it as well. This time, Fili had no questions. The dwarfling just sweetly kissed his cheek, and Thorin smiled.

“Aye, I think I have one you might like.”

Fili sat still and patient in his arms as Thorin began to sing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thadulur kuthu barufizu oshmâkha ra tûm fulz muneb meregizu: Only when your family is guarded and your halls are prosperous should you feast.  
> Adad, Amad, Nadad: Father, mother, brother (respectively)  
> Nidoyel: boy of all boys  
> Melhekhel: king of all kings


End file.
